


Sauce for the Goose

by Syrena_of_the_lake



Category: Chronicles of Narnia - All Media Types, Chronicles of Narnia - C. S. Lewis
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-23
Updated: 2018-08-23
Packaged: 2019-07-01 14:19:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15775827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Syrena_of_the_lake/pseuds/Syrena_of_the_lake
Summary: Not everyone is a fan of the moose song.(Contains bawdy lyrics.)





	Sauce for the Goose

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rthstewart](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rthstewart/gifts).



> Dear Ruth, I saw you were having a bad day and wanted to make it better. I hope this makes you laugh!

Hilde heard it again.

The Maenads had taken up the song, laughing, and it drifted through the wood, occasionally punctuated by a rowdy Centaur’s shout, a goose’s bleat, even an elk’s bugle. It was good for the wood, Hilde thought ponderously, that Bacchus and his Maenads were back.

But did they have to bring _that_ song?

As the festivities on the Dancing Lawn grew more raucous, Hilde withdrew to the lakeshore. She stuck her tremendous snout in the water and blew a cavalcade of bubbles.

The water and the gurgling and the bursting bubbles almost drowned out the singing.

* * *

Later, there was a battle. The whole wood went to war — literally — so Hilde followed. She stepped on a few hard-headed Telmarines, crushing their pointy metal hats like pinecones. She did not enjoy it, but their arrows and their trampling and their horns made her angry. Especially their horns. They sounded like a mockery of a bull moose in spring.

Hilde normally let mockery slide off her back like muck, but a poorly fletched arrow stung her rump and, well, after all — there was only so much one moose could take. If, in her stomping and snorting and bellowing, she imagined crushing vocal chords and crunching instruments, she would never be so crude as to say so aloud.

* * *

After the battle, Hilde heard it again. This time, scores of drunken humans lent their enthusiasm to the verses. New ones — or perhaps very old ones — kept cropping up. The one about the porcupine was most imaginative. And was that really High King Peter singing? Hilde had thought his voice would be deeper.

The trouble was, Hilde thought sourly, trying to recover the placidity of munching mugwort, that too many things rhymed with moose.

And the Telmarine army was, as it transpired, very fond of rhymes.

 

_Camels can hump but they ride like a lump_

_And they spit in your eye, what’s more_

_And rabbits go fast but they never do last_

_And the tortoise’s shell is a bore._

_When the gander philanders, the goose can let loose,_

_And I’ve never had anything quite like a moose._

 

Hilde snorted and plunged her whole head in the lake. A passing perch eyed her suspiciously, but was abruptly snatched out of view. Startled, Hilde reared back.

The heron who had so neatly speared the fish swallowed and croaked. “Had enough of the party? Don’t want to let loose?” Her snaky neck curved and her head bobbed suggestively.

Hilde sagged. 

“Moose, moose, I want me a moose,” the heron chanted to the rhythm of her long, slow footsteps. “I’ve never had anything quite like a moose.”

Hilde wanted badly to respond, but she couldn’t think of anything that rhymed with _heron_.

A hulking dark shape abruptly crashed through the underbrush. The heron squawked and launched into the air, legs akimbo. Hilde flicked her ears at the newcomer in welcome.

The bull moose grunted. “Can’t stand that song.”

Hilde stomped. A wave of pond scum sloshed beneath her. “Should make a song about _them_ ,” she agreed, uttering her first words in days. 

The bull moose pricked his ears and shook his exceedingly large head. Hilde couldn’t help but notice his magnificent rack. It was broader than an eagle’s wings and looked solid as an oak, and the wicked looking points were still russet with Telmarine blood. “Sauce for the gander,” he said, lurching closer.

“Sauce for the goose,” agreed Hilde. She wasn't much of a poet, but with such inspiration by her side, maybe she could muster a few lusty rhymes.

* * *

Many years later, the phrase “barren as a heron” had entered the common lexicon, and the song “The Telmarine who loved his machine” was famous for its 99 improper uses of a trebuchet. The bull moose’s name was never recorded, and Hilde’s was lost to history. But everyone agreed that no one wrote bawdy songs quite like Anonymoose.

**Author's Note:**

> The verse in this ficlet is original. The refrain is from the Moose Song, which really exists and can be found here: http://www.theweebsite.com/bawdysongs/songs/moose_song.html


End file.
